Pretend to be a messenger for the spirit of Erich von Straussheim.

‘Ok, here’s the plan,’ you say, ‘I’m going to pretend to be a messenger for Erich von Straussheim, their leader, and they’ll no doubt listen to me. Then we can just lead them to the authorities.’

And just like that, you fetch a flowing robe with a hood, a fake beard, and platform shoes to make you all the more menacing. In your full regalia, even Twin #2 – a cynic at heart – can’t help but gasp.

‘You are Erich von Straussheim,’ he mutters, wiping away a tear.

But the Woman of a Certain Age is straight to action. ‘Alright, you go ahead, and we’ll wait in the wings for the right time – ’

‘Ajax! Ajax, what’s taking so long!’ Achitophel cries angrily from off-stage. Everyone peers out from behind the wings to see her stomping about. ‘Ajax, c’mon, we haven’t got all night!’

‘Neither do we,’ Twin #1 observes wryly, pushing you out of the wings for good measure. ‘Go get ‘em, tiger.’

Did he really just say that? you think. But there’s no time to dwell on it: straightening yourself up (it’s been some time since you wore platform shoes), you make your way to center-stage, calling out (in your best Sixteenth Century Avenging Patriarch), ‘BEHOLD, IT IS I, ERICH VON STRAUSSHEIM, RECENTLY RETURNED FROM THE DEAD.’

The faceless, dancing alumni immediately leap out of your way (you can’t help but be reminded of Cats) and begin genuflecting towards you. Achitophel, all a-stutter, remains standing, but is very obviously moved.

‘M-m-my lord…’ she begins, ‘but, t-the summoning ceremony, the Shadow Realm – ’

‘I AM THE SHADOW REALM,’ you bellow, ‘AND WHERE I WALK IS THE SHADOW REALM.’

‘My lord!’ Achitophel cries, bowing deeply and laying the Infinity Bludgeon on the ground before her.

Recognizing the Bludgeon, you think fast. ‘RISE, ACHITOPHEL, DAUGHTER OF CLARENCE, AND DELIVERETH TO ME MINE BLUDGEON OF INFINITY.’

‘Of course,’ she replies, rising quickly, holding the Bludgeon out before her, and you reach out to take it…

But Achitophel swiftly pirouettes, flinging the bludgeon around before bringing it crashing against your knee, which shatters upon impact. Feeling your legs fold out from under you, you collapse into your robes as you hear her cackle.

‘FOOL! Did you seriously think I could mistake you for Erich von Straussheim?’

‘Yes,’ you reply weakly.

Caught off guard by your matter-of-fact confession, Achitophel hesitates, wielding the Infinity Bludgeon above her head. Naturally, you try to capitalize on it.

‘Achitophel, don’t do this,’ you plead, ‘remember our days at Denny’s? Remember the ketamine? Bayonne?’

‘You were a better person, then – one of the Reh’a’la,’ she answers, tearfully, before her face grows stern and she adds, ‘you killed him, didn’t you?’

‘And I killed a mime, as well,’ you reflect, regretfully.

Achitophel only shakes her head, and is about to bring down the Bludgeon when she is interrupted yet again by a cry from the wings. It’s the Woman of a Certain Age.

‘Wait!’ she yells, running on-stage, ‘Once you kill them the story will be over, and we still have so much exposition to cover.’

‘Yea, what about Erich von Straussheim, how exactly are you going to resurrect him?’ Twin #2 inquires, joining her.

‘Yea, and why is this Blood Cult sponsored by venture capitalists?’ Twin #1 adds, appearing alongside his double.

‘Use your imagination,’ Achitophel replies dryly, before bringing down the Bludgeon.

‘Wait!’ you scream, but it’s too late – you’re not gonna learn more, not gonna save the day, and certainly won’t be using that head of yours any time soon.

Resurrect yourself?
Credits

Wait for Ajax

You decide to wait for Ajax. Turning to the others, you tell them as much: ‘Let’s wait for Ajax; he’ll remember me, I can talk to him, and we can get out of here.’

The others nod grimly, and a few moments later you hear Ajax howl from the other room.

‘What was that?’ Achitophel cries, hearing him.

‘Horus is dead!’ Ajax replies lugubriously. Then, as Achitophel gives the expected response (wailing, throwing her arms around, demanding the dancing alumni to break formation and search the building with the intent to Kill), you and the gang exchange glances while you hear Ajax stomp in your direction.

There aren’t really any decisions left to make. The dancing alumni are making a congo-line up the stairs, Achitophel is tearing out her hair, the windows are alight with a bloodred sky outside, the cacophonous drumming makes it impossible to think, the woman of a certain age is clutching her ears while blood from them pours through her fingers, the twins clutch each-other as if they were little children all over again, and Ajax barrels through the door to the rafters and doesn’t even stop when he sees you.

‘You!’ he cries, all anguish, all vindication as he picks you up (yes, he was always quite strong), breaks your back on his knee, then tosses you off the rafters, letting you fall, fall, fall like Icarus or Lucifer or M. Night Shyamalan from whatever successes you enjoyed earlier, down onto the stage, where you don’t die but definitely break a few bones (rafters being quite high, after all {remember that shot in Citizen Kane? Mhmm}).

Well, this isn’t how you wanted things to go. And yet, you didn’t want the dancing alumni to gather around you, either. Is this some sort of team-building exercise? Networking event? Alas, if only you’d brought along your business cards, which you never would have used otherwise – in fact, why are business cards still a thing? And, speaking of, why are you dying? Because you made the wrong choice somewhere along the line, evidently, ’cause

Keep at it?
Credits

Jump out the window.

You decide to jump out the window. You can reflect on your accomplishments as you fall to the ground next to the charred corpse of the Woman of a Certain Age and, upon landing, get struck by lightning, too.

Give it another go?
Credits

Jump out the window.

Throwing yourself on the floor, you start eating what appears to be the liver of Twin #2. It tastes gamy and is extremely difficult to chew. Once you start eating the entrails, the faceless alumni stop and stare at you, before advancing towards you. You’ve committed to this, though: you keep eating, until they scoop you up and carry you towards the window.

Turns out you accomplished absolutely nothing, aside from becoming a cannibal before getting defenestrated. Congratulations. You can reflect on your accomplishments as you fall to the ground next to the charred corpse of the Woman of a Certain Age and, upon landing, get struck by lightning, too. Yep…

It coulda been worse… try again?
Credits

RUN!

Upon hearing the scream, you turn tail and run. Yep. You thought you’d conquered your fear of hearing people scream, but you haven’t.

As you run back up the hill, you pummel yourself with the same old critiques: I’m a coward! Did I learn nothing from middle school? Am I still in middle school? I might as well be!

You have a lot to learn, evidently, but thankfully you won’t have to worry about studying for those life lessons, let alone putting them in action: as you sprint up the open hill, you’re struck by lightning.

What? A storm was scheduled to hit tonight, yes, but that wasn’t supposed to be for a while – and the sky seemed pretty clear on the way down. Ah, but then you remember another middle school lesson which you never picked up: lightning can strike even when the skies are clear.

Yet you are not killed instantaneously. The electricity passes straight through you, opening up a Nile River – or Grand Canyon, you can Choose Your Own Analogy – along your spine, and you collapse in the dry grass like a sizzled steak that smells thoroughly unappetizing. You will be dead in a few minutes, it’s true, and your brain is already far worse off than it was in middle school (or even your classmate ‘ole Jimmy Fiddlepiss’ brain, for that matter, and now he’s a Congressman), but at least you can take these last few moments to reflect on your failures.

Yes, you should have either walked straight into those double-doors like Aragorn, or climbed up the bougainvillea like Romeo. Whether or not an Arwen or Juliet in distress awaited inside (or Frodo, to your Samwise), however, you will never know, because…

Try again?

Credits

Erich von Straussheim’s Thespian Hour

Under the masked student’s list of Reunion Activities, one catches your eye: Erich von Straussheim’s Thespian Hour.

‘I was a thespian, once,’ you say, surprising yourself with the use of the word ‘thespian’, which you had never employed in the past. The undergrad is equally alarmed by your word choice, yet you allow yourself to continue, wistfully: ‘I once played Banquo in Macbeth, back in the day… In fact, I wonder if any of my old cast mates will be there…’

You trail off, overwhelmed by a Proustian flood of memories – the anxious pre-performance warmups, the painful faux-beards that refused to peel off after a week of performing, and the disembodied ecstasy attained in fleeting mid-performance moments – and smile nostalgically. Yikes, you’re old.

The student looks on, unimpressed. ‘Beats me, thespian,’ she observes, then adds before she leaves, ‘One way to find out – go check out the theatre.’

You are left alone again on the windswept quad, which – aided by a well-timed murder of crows exploding from above some skeletal trees – attains a startlingly menacing quality. Afraid, but trying not to think about it, you begin a determined stride down the college’s beer can-littered hill and towards the old theatre building. Along the way, you pass a man whom you mistake for your old sociology professor, Dr. Felix Neanderfellow, but it’s just an ancient alum, who scowls as you walk by.

And so it is with a lurking sense of dread that you finally turn around the corner of a lamentable 1960’s-era academic office building to regard your old haunt, the George Gordon O’Hoohalan ’59 Memorial Theatre. It is an old, venerable building, with a long, sloping Parisian roof and an imposing pair of impossibly high wooden doors at the front, one of which is parted open just barely, allowing a red light to spill out into the crisp evening air. Strangely, no noise comes from inside – until just before you enter, when you hear a scream come from a 2nd-story window.

You pause. You could turn to run, continue through the front door, or climb a vine of bougainvillea up to the window, to investigate the source of the scream. Which will it be?

A) Run.

B) Climb up to the window.

C) Continue through the front door.

“Alright, let’s go.”

Something about the look in their eyes tells you to listen. You nod wordlessly and follow them back up the trail.

“There’s no use going back to campus. There’s a peak not far from here where we can call for help,” Jackie says.

“Help from what?” you ask.

“The Butcher,” whispers Meredith.

The snow is falling harder now, so hard you can barely see the person in front of you. You reach out to grab each other’s hands, forming a human chain through the forest. Just audible over the crunch of your boots in the snow, the grating, incessant hum returns. Behind you, Jackie trips, pulling you with her. You lose your grip on Steven.

“Sorry,” Jackie says, “I hit a root or something.” Waving your arm frantically, you find his wrist again, the chain complete. “I know we’re close. Just keeping going straight.”

You keep trudging through the snow, the human chain pulling you up the trail. The trees are thinning out. In the distance, even though the storm, you can see the glow of the campus. And, up ahead, some light, a campfire is going, somehow, in the middle of the blizzard.

“Oh my god,” Jackie says, “we’re back at the ropes course.” She’s right. All around you

“Steven, we need to turn around. STEVEN, turn around!” Jackie release you. But the human chain keeps moving forward. You try to let go but it won’t let go back.

Behind you, Jackie screams.

“Steven!” You cry. “STEVEN let go of me!” As you get closer to the fire, you realize the silhouette before you is much bigger than any of yours. It’s skin, reflected in the flickering blaze, is sticky with leaves, sweat, and blood, its grip ironclad. Whatever hand is holding you, the hand leading you to safety, isn’t Steven’s.

That’s because Steven’s hand has already been laid by the fire, his skin a crackling brown. He’s next to Meredith and Jackie, each of them rolled much too close to the flames for comfort. Much too close, for anything, you quickly realize.

Anything but cooking.

Give it another go?
Credits

Get the hell out of there

You take off, in no hurry to see what happened to her. You can hear what’s happening well enough. You’re tearing throw the woods, running whatever direction you can. But it’s not long until the humming returns — louder, needier, the breath on the back of your neck.

Until suddenly there are no woods anymore. You trip in a ditch and sprawl onto an old country road, tumbling into the rough gravel street. You slowly rise to your feet, feeling blood coming from your head. Stars and lights flash through your vision, but even then, you can see the teeth. The shining, shimmering teeth, smiling wickedly from the safety of the trees.

They are the last thing you see as the very real lights swerve in the snow, the oncoming snow truck losing control in the snow as it plows through you, trapping you underneath it as it rips you to shreds over the stones. The plowman, distraught, calls the police to come, quickly, but it’s already too late. Your pieces have already been collected.

Start over?
Credit

Stand your ground.

Never taking your eyes off the Butcher, you reach down and grab a long, flaming branch from the fire, you hand it to Meredith.

The Butcher creeps around the fire, body lower and lower to the ground. Waiting for it’s moment to pounce.

You grab a branch of your own and you think, just for a moment, that it pauses. It’s worried. You can hear it’s breathing, low and labored. It’s around the fire now, blocking the exit.

For a moment, neither of you move.

Then it pounces.

You both thrust your branches in front of you and it crashes through them. It rips you to the ground and sends Meredith sprawling, her gut sliced open by the Butcher’s razor-sharp fingers. she stumbles to her feet, branch still in hand.

But The Butcher stumbles, too. You impaled it, your branch jutting out from its torso as blood drips to the snow. But still it is right on top of you, head arching back, teeth gleaming. It’s long, malleable claws lower slowly towards your arm, preparing to carve you up. This is it, you think…

Meredith cracks her branch over its head! The Butcher goes limp.

Quickly, you shove it off, grab Meredith’s hand, and sprint into the woods.

By the time find your way out of The Glen, it’s almost morning. The two of you slump, exhausted, into an empty field. Everything is cold and white, new snow coating the landscape. A thick trail of blood back into the forest, a perfect roadmap for anything that wants to find you.

But nothing comes.

You’ve used what’s left of Meredith’s coat to stop the bleeding from her stomach, but you both know that you can’t go any further. It’s cold. So, so cold. You desperately huddle together, but all you have left between you is that flimsy, fashionable jacket. A chill wind rips through the fabric, robbing you of your breath. Your heart barely beats as you stop shivering. Your eyes close.

Next time, I’d wear the warmer coat.

Give it another go?
Credits

Stand your ground.

Never taking your eyes off the Butcher, you reach down and grab a long, flaming branch from the fire, you hand it to Meredith.

The Butcher creeps around the fire, body lower and lower to the ground. Waiting for it’s moment to pounce.

You grab a branch of your own and you think, just for a moment, that it pauses. It’s worried. You can hear it’s breathing, low and labored. It’s around the fire now, blocking the exit.

For a moment, neither of you move.

Then it pounces.

Meredith cracks her branch over it’s head! The Butcher goes limp.

Quickly, you shove it off, grab Meredith’s hand, and sprint into the woods.

But nothing comes.

You’ve used what’s left of Meredith’s coat to stop the bleeding from her stomach, but you both know that you can’t run any further. It’s cold. So, so cold.
So you and Meredith do your best to huddle into your warm winter coat, sharing your heat as the chill wind whips around you. You can’t feel your fingers. Your eyes are freezing shut.

And then you hear the helicopters.

As if brought back to life, the two of you leap up, hands waving as the rescue crew descends upon you with doctors, blankets, and water. The load Meredith into the copter first, then come back for you. And though your vision is woozy, your senses fried, you take one last look in the dark forest. And you swear, as the helicopter carries you to safety, a disembodied mouth of perfectly white teeth smiles at you through the trees.

YOU SURVIVED!!!

Nice work! Think you can survive the other horrors?